It was almost the afternoon, and my neighbor and I found ourselves sitting in a café just around the corner from our apartment building. Settling down with our post-coital coffees, I noted that they were both black with one sugar. "How's work?" I asked by way of small talk.

"My paper," I said. "Well, my editor and me." I thought about it. "Okay, just me."

She shook her head with a smile.

"It's my job," I explained, "to get to celebrities who are notoriously tight-lipped. To do that, I have to sneak past or talk my way through armies of publicists, bodyguards, and agents. Ever since I was a kid, I've have a long history of breaking and entering and running cons, so that makes me a natural."

"So you're paparazzi."

"Not quite. The targets..."

"You're not really a ninja, you know," she told me.

"They know I'm a journalist. It's just a matter of getting alone with them and making them like me. To do that, you need to be able to profile them on the spot and become exactly the kind of person they feel comfortable opening up to. Also, you have to be prepared to do a lot of drugs and alcohol."

"Sounds lonely," she said.

How did she know that? Most people at this point expressed only envy. "It's--"

My phone went off, changing the subject. I dug it out, looked at the caller ID, and groaned, "I have to take this." Immediately it began berating me.

As it did, Emma squirmed in her chair. The nails on one of her hands traced a pattern on the tabletop in front of her, and the rest of her fingers stroked her coffee cup.

My mouth went dry. I would much rather have been that cup, that tabletop, or that chair right now, instead of listening to my phone rant. "I know," I sighed, letting it continue for another minute.

Emma's fingers drifted over and began stroking mine.

When the phone went silent, I realized I'd better rejoin the conversation. "I know, I've been busy." It asked me a question. "No!" I replied. "Okay, maybe a little bit." I added, "Okay, maybe a lot."

It lectured me some more while Emma quietly lifted my hand to her face and began sucking on my pinkie.

The phone chose at that moment to reveal something that hadn't occurred to me, and I was forced to liberate myself from her grasp. "Seriously?" I buried my face in my now free hand. "Oh my god, I am so sorry." The phone laid on a thick guilt trip.

"I said I was sorry." The next guilt trip was more of a guilt sprint, but it still stung.

Emma began to play with her cinnamon-colored hair.

I so wished I could just hang up and help her, but instead, I had to ask my phone, "What are you doing later?" It told me. "Why don't we go have a drink?" It asked me where. "Let's go to Byrne's. They have that classy sparkling water you like, right? See you in an hour?"

Sighing, I hung up and said to Emma, "Sorry. That was my friend, Sean. I haven't talked to him in over a month. I was supposed to go with him to a cocktail party where I could meet Maggie Gross."

"Who the hell is Maggie Gross?" she asked.

"She owns and runs a restaurant that's a hotspot for celebrities."

"Your 'ninja targets,'" she said with air quotes.

"Most of the reason they love the place is because she keeps the press at bay." I added, "Unless she really likes the reporter."

"And what makes you think she'll like you?"

"Come on, Em..."

"My name's not Em."

"Everybody likes me."

"I don't like you."

"That's probably because I keep calling you Em."

She shrugged.

"So I'd once mentioned in passing to him that I would give my right arm to meet Maggie Gross, and he got me on an invite list to her latest party."

I've been incarcerated a lot over the past thirteen years, so you'd think I'd get more comfortable with the idea of sleeping in jail. I never did, though. And so, this morning, thoughts of my pillow dragged my lifeless body across the length of Manhattan and up the stairs to my apartment.

The instant I shuffled into my room, however, my neighbor's voice appeared from the fire escape. "Where have you been? I've been worried sick!"

I replied, "Have you been sitting outside my window all night?" I then found myself asking a more important question: "You've been worried sick about me?"

"I would have called," she said, "but I don't have your number."

It had been some time since anyone had missed me. The sensation doused me both with confusion and excitement.

I shook my head. "Not today, Em. I just spent a night in a holding cell, and I need sleep."

She bit her lip. "You really got arrested?"

I didn't reply as I pulled off my boots.

She crawled inside, slipped behind me, and began unbuttoning my shirt. "You going to jail is like an aphrodisiac to me."

When her fingers loosened my belt and slipped my pants down my thighs, I said, "You doing that is like an aphrodisiac to me."

"That's something else we have in common," she whispered.

A half-hour later, I stumbled out of my room toward the kitchen for an emergency infusion of protein and simple carbohydrates. I had so little energy that my roommate Cameron's sudden ambush didn't really faze me.

"Do you talk to Emma at all?" he asked.

"Why do you ask?" I replied cautiously.

"She has a new boyfriend, but she won't bring him around."

As far as I knew, nothing in my demeanor betrayed me, but I needed to play it cool. "What makes you think she has a boyfriend?"

"I think you of all people should know the answer to that."

Now I was starting to worry. "Should I?"

"All of that carrying on all the time," he told me, "it keeps Mitchell and I awake all night, and we're on the other side of the apartment. You're, like, right there."

"You mean in the bedroom right next to hers," I clarified, "in this apartment."

He snorted. "It's not like you're in the same room as her when she's making all that noise."

"Because that would be crazy."

"I mean, just now, it sounded like it was coming from your room."

"Crazy."

He leaned in close and whispered, "Between you and me, she's never been this... vocal before. Whoever this guy is, he's really pushing her buttons. I have to meet him."

I was simultaneously honored and threatened by this line of questioning. "I'll bet you a dollar," I told him, "that when you finally meet this guy, you will not believe he's the one doing that to her." This is because the only reason I got this apartment is because I improbably convinced Cameron and his boyfriend I was as homosexual as they were--improbable because I have a lot of sex with a lot of women.

"I..." Oh, shit. "I. Don't. Know. Because... they were a gift. And I never looked at the brand. Of the high-tech. Headphones."

"Can I take a look?"

"Sure," I replied. "I'll go get them." Oh, shit. Despite the sleep-deprivation and the numbing afterglow, I had to think fast. "Wait. Is that my phone?"

"I didn't hear anything."

"It's on vibrate." I put my cell to my ear and nodded my head, thinking of an excuse to get out of the apartment to find and purchase a pair of high-tech, noise-cancelling headphones. "Celebrity emergency," I told Cameron before fleeing to my room. "Got to go."

I slipped into my room and shook a very naked Emma awake. "Cameron's coming!"

"What?" she whispered.

"I need to pretend to leave, and you need to go home."

She groaned, "I guess this is why we always use my bed." She threw on her jeans and one of my T-shirts, wadded up the rest of her clothes, and escaped.

I tried to stroll nonchalantly to the door, but I couldn't escape Cameron's voice calling after me, "Max!"

I froze.

"I just have to tell you," he said, "that you are, by far, the strangest cat I've ever met. And I'm dating Mitchell."

"Thanks," I replied, "I put a lot of work into it."

He laughed, "Go take care of that thing at work."

By the time I'd locked the deadbolt behind me and theatrically stomped down a flight of stairs, Cameron had lost all interest in me. I waited a extra minute until I was extra sure the coast was clear before tiptoeing back to knock gently on Emma's door. Giggling, she beckoned me inside.

"You got to admit, dude," she said, "this is a little fun."

I shrugged and smiled. I had to admit it that it was.

"Wait right here," she told me and disappeared into her room.

Unbuttoning my shirt, I asked, "Shall we go another round?"

"Dude," she shouted, "are you fucking insane?"

I buttoned back up with a sigh.

She emerged wearing clothes that could be seen in public. "Let's get a cup of coffee. I'm buying."

Hours passed while I stood on my fire escape, marinating in guilt. I made a fist and almost rapped on my neighbor's window before stopping myself. What the hell did I think was I doing? I was having a crisis, and this is how I chose to handle it? With mindless sensual gratification? I couldn't even begin to describe how utterly selfish I felt at that moment.

But what was more selfish than sex? The only point of it--if you're doing it right--is to feel physically good. I was the kind of guy who took great pride in the lengths I went to please my partner, but I'd always known that I performed that way because I got off on getting her off.

She entered the room, took a long swig out of the bottle, and curled up on the far end. "So," she said, "what's up, dude."

"Banjo was one of my best buddies but he's gone now and now he's really gone, and I don't miss him. I mean, I did miss him, but not anymore."

"Back up," she demanded. "You were best friends with a banjo?"

I pulled myself to my feet. "This was a mistake," I muttered. "I'm sorry."

With a sigh, she gestured me back to her futon. "You're here, I'm awake, my beer's open, so you might as well explain yourself."

"Seriously?"

"Just try to keep it simple. It's fucking late."

"Banjo's my cousin."

"You have a cousin named Banjo," she replied. "Really."

"Benjamin," I sighed. "Benjamin Joshua. We called him Banjo because whatever."

"And he's gone." She scrunched up her face, trying to concentrate on my verbal diarrhea from a few minutes ago. "Twice."

"He went to prison," I told her. "And he just died there."

"Oh."

"He went native," I said. "Kicked some asses. Knifed a guy. I didn't recognize him the last time I saw him. Hell, I didn't even like him." I shrugged. "Apparently I wasn't the only one. Somebody stabbed him."

"You think it was because his name was Banjo?"

"What?" I yelped. "Why would you say that?"

"I don't know!" To her credit, she really did look like she regretted saying that.

Still: "You are such an asshole, you know that?"

"Well, I'm sorry," she replied, "but I'm no good at this kind of thing."

"What are you good at?"

"Take off your pants, and I'll show you."

I did, and she did.

Eight days later, I was sitting in bed, contemplating something or other, when a tap came from my window.

"Dude," Emma whispered, "are you there?"

I opened the blinds.

She frowned, apparently in shock. "I think I just lost my job."

I opened my mouth to reply, but had nothing.

"No," she continued, "I don't think I lost my job. I did lose my job. What the fuck?"

"You want to have this conversation on your futon?" I asked her.

In a haze, she led me into her apartment, her words spilling out uneasily. "My current gig was supposed to last until Labor Day, but they just canceled the contract."

"Do you need me to make suggestions," I asked, rooting through her refrigerator for beer and finding only empty cardboard boxes that were supposed to contain beer, "or do you just want me to tell you it's going to be okay?"

"Wait until I'm finished, then tell me it's okay."

I gave up and joined her in the living room. "Go on."

"If I don't find work before July, then I don't know how I'm going to get by. I've been living off of credit cards for so long. I'm so scared." She waited a few moments before adding, "You can tell me it's going to be okay now, dude."

I reached over and massaged the inside of her thigh. "It's going to be okay now, dude."

She moaned, "Thank you."

Five days later, she invited me into her apartment to tell me, "The A train broke down two times last week! Twice! I was late to work! Twice!"

"I thought you were unemployed."

"I got a new one," she replied. "And it's in Battery Park, as far as possible from this apartment."

"At least it's not Ozone park."

"Twice!" she reminded me.

"Bed or futon?"

"Either."

Three days later, she opened her window.

"I got arrested again," I told her.

"I can never tell when you're kidding," she replied.

"Not kidding." I asked her, "Have you ever been arrested?"

She shook her head.

"Well, if you're going to sympathize," I said, "you should probably experience it for yourself." With that, I produced a pair of recreational handcuffs.

Three days later, she peeked into my bedroom. "All the copiers at work ran out of toner at the same time."

"I'll be right out," I said.

Two days later, I crawled through her window. "I had to interview Martin Hughes."

"The Martin Hughes?"

I nodded.

She shuddered. "Strip," she demanded

Two days later, she told me, "I maxed out one of my cards.

The next day, I told her, "My editor chewed my head off."

The day after that, she told me, "The heel of my favorite boot broke off."

The day after that, I told her, "My photographer won't quit snapping her gum."

The next afternoon, she said, "I got a paper cut."

That evening, I said, "My knuckles hurt from knocking on your window."

"Hi," I said as I slid into the booth next to the bored-looking blonde, "I'm Max."

"Are you the wingman?" she asked.

"Do I look like a fighter pilot?"

She glared at me. "You know what I mean."

With a cartoonishly eager face, I looked at her. "Please tell me."

"You're the one who's supposed to distract the ugly friend while your partner swoops in on the more attractive one."

I frowned and turned to the other side of the nightclub, where Sean was in the process of swooping in on the more attractive one. However, using her as a point of comparison was hardly fair. She was simply the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen; keep in mind that I still carried a massive torch for my gorgeous, elegant ex-girlfriend, so that's saying quite a bit.

The thing was, Sean was terrible at this. And so was she. It was like watching two pre-adolescents learning to waltz while their parents coached them using semaphore.

Ordinarily, I would have left him to it while I found a place to drink in which I didn't have to be audience to this. Ordinarily, I wouldn't tolerate being dispatched to distract the ordinary friend. This, however, was no ordinary friend. Nobody who filled out a camisole the way she did could be described as ordinary. Besides, there was something delightful about her cynicism. This meant that I knew in advance she'd consider the next thing I would say to be utter bullshit. I said it anyway: "She has an ugly friend?"

She growled, "Don't start."

"Let me make this simple," I told her. "If I were only here to distract you, I wouldn't be asking you to leave with me for someplace quieter, and with better lighting."

"Really." She still looked skeptical.

"Okay," I sighed, "let me make this simpler." I reached over and caressed her cheek with my thumb, guiding her closer to me.

And then, just before our lips had a chance to touch, a voice looming over us declared, "Max, I believe it is time for us to converse exclusively with each other."

"What the hell did he just say?" the blonde whispered to me.

"That he's an asshole who has no idea how to interact with human beings," I replied. To Sean, I said, "I believe no such thing."

"Your beliefs are irrelevant."

"I think I should go," she said.

With a flick of my wrist, my business card appeared in front of her face. "I'd like to continue this conversation," I told her.

She plucked it out of my hand as she stood up to collect her attractive friend. "Maybe."

As I followed him to the bar, a petulant silence thickened between us that I was determined not to shatter. Obviously I was perturbed about his shattering of my impending arousal. I didn't give a shit about what was pissing him off.

My stubbornness outlasted his, and he snapped, "Please explain to me the purpose of that exchange."

"I was being your wingman," I reminded him.

"You were far exceeding the duty for which I enlisted you."

"I don't do anything half-assed, Sean."

"Thus I must ask, has it become a necessity to refresh your memory, vis-à-vis our wager?"

"You mean the one where I swore that I wouldn't have sex for a year?"

"Indeed," he replied. "Only ninety-four days have passed since we reached this agreement."

"It's only been three months?"

"And a smattering of days."

"Fuck." I reached for my wallet, took out three dollar bills, and slapped them onto the bar.

So what happened to that wild animal I'd spent most of last night tasting and feeling? Where were the throaty giggles and that unbelievably focused, blue-eyed stare? Where was that woman?

And then I saw her. She was strutting out of the restroom in that red turtleneck I should have been yanking off of her torso; that miniskirt that needed to be pushed up to her waist; those gray-stocking-covered legs that belonged wrapped around me; and those fingernails running through those cinnamon-colored curls, both of which would be better served tickling my naked chest. There was that crooked smile that melted me, and it was flirting with some bridge-and-tunnel doofus at the bar. It was then, as she left him and headed back toward me, all enthusiasm fleeing her body, that I had my idea.

But first thing's first: "Give it," I demanded.

"Give what?"

"His card."

She handed it over, and I tore it to pieces while she growled.

"Fair's fair,” I said, referring to the way she'd disposed of the phone number the cute waitress had given me earlier. Okay, so I had rescued it, but it was the spirit of the thing, right?

She pouted. "You know, this is such a disaster, anyway. I don't see why you had to go and make it worse."

"Em, I need you to listen to me very carefully."

"Don't call me Em."

"I think it's safe to say that we have no business dating each other."

She folded her arms.

"And I'm betting that you're interested in being with someone you actually like, but dating is not particularly easy, especially in this town; the reason being that you're trying to be sexy when you're not actually sure you are."

"Speak for yourself."

"Don't jerk me around, Em."

"My name's not Em,"she snapped.

"And about the only time you're that positive you're sexy is when you've just had sex."

"Oh, come on!"

"I told you not to jerk me around, Em."

"My name is Emma."

"I was watching you talk to that jackhole over there, and you were hot."

"Too little, too late, dude," she told me.

"Yeah?" I told her right back. "Then how did you get that guy's number after ten seconds? And how did I get cute little Dakota's attention just now without even trying? It's because, at this particular moment in time, we both knew that we drove someone so crazy that, less than eighteen hours ago, they ripped our clothes off."

"Keep talking," she breathed.

"The only thing you and I have in common is that we enjoy fucking each other's brains out."

She smiled a little. "All right, I'll give you that."

"There are just some days when you really need to get laid, and handling it yourself just isn't going to cut it. Now, I'm not saying that we become one another's sex toy..."

"Dude," she told me, "that's exactly what you're saying."

"I guess it is."

She took a long look at the doofus at the bar. "I was hot, wasn't I?"

"We made it this far without talking."

There was that crooked smile again. "For a condescending asshole, you make a lot of sense."

"For a childish, superficial nerd, you have great taste in sex partners," I replied.

Emma threw enough cash to cover a half-bottle of wine onto the coffee table in front of us. "I'm going to talk to the jackhole."

I grabbed her arm, and a current shot through me, telling me I needed to find a nearby solid surface right away and bend her over it.

She gasped, leading me to surmise that she needed to find the same solid surface.

I noticed that I'd been holding my breath for quite a while, and so I let it out.

She yanked her arm away from me and swallowed a lungful of air. "What?"

"What what?"

"Why did you grab my arm?"

"Like this?" I reached out, because, right now, my body craved that current with more urgency than the most powerful of nicotine fits.

She dodged me and whispered, "The deal."

"I'm just grabbing your arm."

"Dude."

I blinked the lust out of my eyes. "Right."

"Later, dude," she said and strolled away toward the bar.

I called after her, "What about the deal?"

"The deal was that you and I don't sleep together tonight," she said. "We said nothing about other people."

"Yeah, we did."

"Our own beds, remember?"

She growled. "Promise me, then, that you're not coming back for that little girl with the corkscrew."

The number I’d planned to call later burned secretly in my pocket. "I promise you that I will not return to this bar to pick up Dakota." I wasn't being totally dishonest.

She eyed me with little to no trust, which was a perfectly legitimate reaction to me. "Let's go, then."

Our cab ride was short and quiet, but excruciating, since we were overly conscious of the space between us. The merest touch would probably lead to the deal being broken, and we couldn't have that--though I wasn't sure why anymore.

When we finished climbing up four stories to our respective doors, she beckoned me with a sexy finger.

I drifted over cautiously. "Yeah?"

She wrapped her arms around me and stared deep into my eyes.

"Hey, now," I said.

"Shush," she replied.

My mouth went dry, and all the warmth in my hands and brain headed straight below my belt. Her hands caressed my back, sliding lower and lower, over my waist, and into my back pockets.

"Oh," I said, resigned to the obvious.

Behind me, I heard her fingers tearing the waitress's number to confetti.

She leaned closer to my ear and whispered, "Fair's fair." Her hair left burning trails across my cheek as she withdrew her head, her arms still around me. When I whimpered, she just gave me that same smug look she'd used last night to seduce me.

Since I was here anyway, I kissed her hard and slammed her against the nearest wall. She moaned, and her fingers stayed in my pockets and dug in. My hands gripped her face, until one crept down her neck, past her collarbone, and found its way to her breast.

That's when we both snapped out of it and pushed each other away.

"Deal," she panted.

I gulped. "Right. Deal."

She struggled to fish her keys out of her purse and dropped them to the floor. The sight of her bending over to pick them up anchored me there. She caught me looking, and she too froze.

"Deal," I said.

"Deal," she agreed.

I unlocked my door and forced myself inside. From there, I charged straight for the mattress on my floor and masturbated furiously.

From what I could hear on the other side of the wall, she was doing the exact same thing.

She recoiled. "Yeah," she said. "It's based on one of my favorite comics, and it's got some really thoughtful ideas about patriotism and loyalty, all wrapped up in people getting kicked in the head."

"Oh, my god, you're serious."

"I didn't say it was the best movie." She shrank a little in her seat. "I just said it was my favorite."

"The dialogue," I moaned, "the explosions; I swear that thing was written by a thirteen-year-old boy."

"So you've seen it?"

"Tragically."

"Why would you do that then if you hated it so much?"

"I had to watch a screener to prep for an interview with Reese Kensington."

Her eyes widened in admiration. "You've met Reese Kensington?"

With a shrug, I said, "I drank him under the table."

"Why would you do that?"

"I bet him an exclusive that he couldn't keep up with me."

"What could you, of all people, possibly have given him if you lost?"

"I didn't lose."

She rolled her eyes. "So what's your favorite movie, Mr. Critic?"

"Easy," I replied. "Janine."

"Isn't that that British one?"

A little surprised that she was familiar with it, I nodded.

"Starring what's-her-name?"

"Sophie Atkinson."

"That's her."

"You are such a girl!" It was clear from her tone that she wasn't kidding."

"So shit didn't blow up in it."

"Nothing," she moaned, "happens."

"It's called subtlety."

"It's called 'the most boring two hours of my life,'" she snorted.

"Clearly you and I won't be watching movies together."

She sighed. "Favorite band?"

"I don't really listen to music."

"How can you not like music?"

"I said I don't listen to music," I explained, "not that I don't like it."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"People are way too possessive about music," I told her. "They get mad when others don't like their favorite songs, and they look down at other people's tastes."

"Kind of like you and movies."

I took a few moments to glare at her, hopefully disguising the fact that she was totally right. "I just don't think it's worth getting that worked up over." I asked, "Who's your favorite?"

She spoke with the confidence of someone who didn't give a fuck about what I thought of her. "Easy: Upward Feedback."

"What's the front-man's name again?"

"Shane Brown."

"Right," I said. "That is a guy is a self-absorbed asshole, but a self-absorbed asshole with really good hashish."

Emma drained her glass and refilled it. "Do you name-drop because you're trying to impress people; or does it make you feel more important?"

"Ouch."

"You were right," she told me. "This was a big mistake." She rose and strode past the bar and into the ladies' room."

Massaging my eyes, I waited until she was out of sight before retrieving the wad of paper from the floor, smoothing it out, and stuffing it into my back pocket to keep it safe from the immature, self-righteous monster I'd come here with. There was no point in wasting the entire evening.

I'd solved my first problem earlier today--I was no longer homeless at the start of the month. This, however, only exacerbated my second problem, which was how to transport my belongings from my old apartment in Brooklyn to my new one, which was within shouting distance of the Bronx. While I didn't actually own much, the idea of schlepping it over the entire length of Manhattan was enough to make me want to douse it all in napalm and ignite it. That wouldn't work, though, inasmuch as I couldn't afford to replace any of it.

Solving unsolvable problems, though, was my specialty, and so I set my right brain to the puzzle while my left brain typed up the notes I'd taken from my Jane Plains concert review and feature from last night. Both sides were brought to a halt when the cell phone in my desk went off.

"The electronic device into which you speak is my property," the phone told me.

"Finders keepers," I replied. I had no intention of keeping the thing, mind you, but the whole experience that put it into my hand was kind of ludicrous, and I wanted answers. In my profession, I'd come to discover that adversity, if massaged properly, tended to produce answers.

"I find your immaturity to be unpleasant."

I opened my mouth to speak, but the directness of the statement was kind of startling, and so I closed it again.

The voice continued, "I am prepared to negotiate for its release."

"Why don't you just buy a new one?"

"I would prefer not to follow that course."

"Are you a robot?" I asked sincerely.

"I fail to see the pertinence of that question."

"So you're not denying it."

He sighed--or simulated a sigh; I had no way of telling. "Decorum dictates that I should utter your name in frustration at this point, but since I have not yet been made aware of it, I would prefer to bypass this and remind you that I am willing to exchange a great deal to repossess that cell phone." He added, "I should probably make it known that I am remarkably wealthy. So what is it you want?"

"Okay," I said. There was a lot I could use right now, I'll admit, but none of that would clarify the situation that put me into this position of strength. You see, the man on the other end of this phone didn't freak out that night when he saw me; he freaked out when he saw my best friend. When I asked her to explain, she absolutely refused. If there was one thing I hated, it was not knowing something. "I want you to tell me how you know Lisa Green and why you reacted that way to her."

"As a businessman," he replied, "the term I would use to describe such an offer is deal-breaker."

With a sigh, I confessed, "I'm moving from Park Slope to Inwood after work tomorrow, and I don't have a car or any money."

"Deal."

"Seriously?"

"I require your current address, your new address, and a convenient time of departure."

I grinned. "I bet your cybernetic arms can lift a lot."

"Nonsense," he replied. "I'll be utilizing professionals."

"But your cybernetic arms could lift a lot, though, right?"

"The information I requested, if you please." After I provided it, he told me, "I will be present at your new residence when you arrive so that we may conclude this transaction, and subsequently, our relationship."

A little over an hour ago, Lisa Green did something I'd never seen before--she retreated. It happened in the East Village during our historic, long-overdue bar crawl. She'd briefly glimpsed someone she knew, and the effect it had on her had the same effect on our heartfelt, confusing, energizing, and, at times, shockingly violent reunion. Silently we went on a short walk, a train ride, and another short walk, until returning to my soon-to-be-vacated apartment. The whole time, questions crawled around inside of me, pleading to be unleashed--the biggest and most insistent being, "Who the fuck was that guy?" I kept them sedated, out of respect.

However, after she spent an unknown amount of time on my mattress, staring at the ceiling, I decided to skip past the question in question and dive into our inevitable back-and-forth: "You have to tell someone."

She shrugged weakly. "I'll get around to it eventually."

"That's new."

"No," she replied, "it's not."

"What I mean is, you're positive you're never talking, and then I usually drag it out of you anyway."

"Really?" She gave me a look that made me wonder if I'd just told her that purple rhinos were contemplating with shoes. "Really? Do you think that, after ten years, you know anything about me?"

Clearly this was a rhetorical question, so I didn't answer.

"I actually trust people now," she said. "More than one person who just might not be there tomorrow."

"Now just wait a minute."

"Just shut the fuck up, Max."

"Um." Though we were only seven when we'd met, we'd never used each other's first names. Originally it was because our relationship was strictly business. Later, it became a private joke. The only time I'd ever called her Lisa was during the heated conversation that would separate us for a decade. Even then she didn't call me Max. And now, as the word set fire to my ears, I was reminded of how I felt the moment I gave up my virginity, and how, even though it was only an imaginary construct that meant nothing, I'd lost something I could never own again.

"You don't get to talk anymore."

"Now you're just being dramatic," I told her.

"I said shut up!" she roared. "That's what you always do! You just keep talking and talking, and you never have to fucking deal with anything."

"I always listen to you."

"No, you fucking don't." Her voice was softening, but my heart was terrified. "You just let me give you something you can use to make yourself my hero. Like you were some kind of a fairy princess, and it was your job to turn me into a real boy."

"Your analogy is problematic."

She shook her head with the kind of disappointment that cause me more violence than her fists ever could. "You're just like him."

"Like who?"

"That's none of your goddamn business."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because you weren't there." She spat out the words. "Because you told me to go fuck myself, and you left me alone. And I had to fix myself. And I think I did a pretty damned good job of it."

She had, but that's not the part that stuck. "I left you alone because it was impossible to be your friend. You pushed me too far."

"I'm bipolar. I had no control over myself back then."

"So you had no control when you smashed the hell out of my kitchen? When you shoved our friend Angelo into that arroyo because he said something stupid about your breasts? When you ran around and had sex with every teenage boy who would? When you called the cops on my cousin and got him thrown in jail for dealing, where he still is?"

"Yes."

"You are so full of shit."

Her eyes narrowed. "You don't have any idea how mental illness works."

My eyes rolled. "Please. You should know better. When someone gets drunk and beats the shit out of his family, do the cops arrest the six-pack?" That was low of me, I admit, considering her father. But I was mad.

"Drinking's a choice."

"Maybe the first couple."

"Hitting's a choice."

"So were the times you hit me," I told her, "but I forgave you yesterday, because..." Shit. How should I put this? "Because I love you." It was a weird kind of love, and that something we both understood, even to this day. It went deeper than the love I felt for my family, and was sturdier than the love I've felt for anyone I've ever had sex with.

"I know," she sighed. "But I've moved on."

"I haven't."

"I'm sorry."

I needed to escape and slump down on a chair, but the closest thing I had to that in my now-empty apartment was a pair of barstools in the kitchen. I shuffled over there, because I couldn't stay here in my bedroom with her forever. I had no idea whether or not I wanted her to follow.

After a while, she did. "Do you ever want to look at me again after this?"

I could always pretend I'd been engaged in sodomy in my own room, but then they'd want to meet the guy. Besides, Emma was pretty damned vocal herself, and no amount of biting my shoulder could restrain that.

Jesus my shoulder hurt.

I didn't know what time it was; only that I had to leave for work in a few hours--a prospect that seemed so much more daunting now that I was weighed down by marijuana and sheer physical exhaustion. My body and mind agreed that if there ever was a time to doze off, this was it.

"Dude!"

I really didn't need to hear that sound right now, and so I willed myself not to be there anymore.

"Dude!"

That didn't work. I settled for mumbling, "I don't know anybody by that name."

"Come on," the voice insisted, "wake up!"

"For crying out loud, Em," I moaned, "I'm a man, not a machine."

"My name's not Em."

"My name's not dude."

"Fine," she said, "you call me Em, I'll call you dude."

"Good." I began to drift away again. "I'm glad we had the chance to work this out."

"Dude!"

I tried to ignore her.

"Dude!"

"Em!"

"I wanted to talk to you about something."

Okay, now I was awake. Nothing good ever starts with a phrase like that. "Is that why you led me here?"

"No," she said condescendingly, "I lured you here because I wanted to fuck your brains out. But now that we're here, maybe we should talk about us?"

"What about us?"

"Exactly! I don't even know anything about you. It's not like we've ever had a real conversation."

"Oh, yeah?" I replied. "Then what did we talk about the night we met?" That wasn't a rhetorical question; I don't remember a thing about that conversation, and not because I was drunk.

"Um," she muttered, "I was only pretending to pay attention to what you had to say."

"Are you telling me you were only interested in my body?"

"Is that a problem?"

Not really.

Without giving me a chance to respond aloud, she continued, "Most people have sex after the third or fourth date, and here we've had sex four times ..."

"Technically eight."

"And we haven't even had a real date."

"You want to go on a date?"

"Can we?"

I sighed. "You know, there's so many ways this is a bad idea."

"I know, but ..." She breathed.

"But what?"

"I hate this girl shit."

"What are you talking about?"

She brushed one of her cinnamon curls behind her ear and looked at everything in the room that wasn't me. "I've been thinking about you constantly since the last time. You remember, when you propped my up on the dresser and did that thing?"

"I seem to recall being there for that." Mostly because I didn't think I had that in me. Although, to be fair, I was kind of possessed.

"And I'm just thinking about ..." She waved her hand up and down my body, lingering an extra moment just below my waist. "... that. I've been thinking about your cocky smile and your sarcasm and your crooked nose and I just want to know all about you and I'm so sorry I am such an idiot!" She threw herself back onto the mattress and covered her face with a pillow.

I took a few deep breaths. "You're right."

"I know!" her muffled voice groaned. "That is so stupid! I'm sorry!"

I growled. I needed some goddamn sleep.

Suddenly she tore the pillow away and sat straight up. "Really?"

"Really," I replied. "Why not?" Part of my agreement was pure curiosity, but most of it was the desire to bring this conversation to an end.

"It doesn't have to be anything special," she blathered. "We can just have dinner here. I know a great Thai place down the block."

"I don't think we'd actually do a lot of talking if we ate here."

"True," she said.

"Can we iron out the details tomorrow?" I asked.

"Thank you," she sighed happily.

I dozed off, knowing what a disaster this was going to be, but preferring to deal with the fallout later.

However, it took only a minute for her to whisper, "Dude!"

"Dammit! It's..." I squinted at her alarm clock, but it was covered by her sports bra. "... late!"

She didn't seem to care. "Do you think you could do that thing, you know, horizontally?"

"Oh," I said, as if that explained everything. Well, almost everything. "Mitchell?"

"Yeah."

"We live on the fourth floor."

"Yes, we do," he confirmed.

"Of a walkup."

"I'm not sure I understand what you're getting at," he said.

"How did this get up here?"

He shrugged. "You know."

Before I could ask what it was that he assumed I knew, he'd wandered away.

"I'm going to bed," I concluded and headed straight to my room. If the world was going to fling crap like that at me like it was some kind of inbred monkey, I was just going to have to put myself in the proper state of mind. With enough marijuana to intoxicate a water buffalo, I crawled out my window.

After the day I'd had, nothing was going to make me happier than this bowl. But just before I touched flame to green, a voice from my neighbor's apartment called out, "Dude, is that you?"

I considered taking a hit before replying, but I wanted to savor every moment with my green, foul-smelling victory. "No."

"Dude," she said, callously disregarding my falsehood, "I've got to show you something."

"I don't got to see it." Unless it was herself clad only in a lacy pushup bra, preferably in cerulean blue, which would brighten up her eyes. That was negotiable.

"Aren't you even curious?"

"No."

"Guess."

I took a deep breath, unfortunately, of regular air, uncontaminated by cannabis. What was it going to take to get some goddamned peace in my life. "Will you leave me alone if I do?"

"Only if you want me to."

"Oh, I want you to."

"We'll see about that." She added, "Go on, guess!"

I folded up my pipe. This was going to take a while. Now what the hell could be so exciting that I had to endure this? I took a stab at it: "Is it...?"

"It's apple butter!"

My mind said, "What?" My mouth also said, "What?"

"Come inside and I'll show you."

"Can you show me out here?"

There was a long pause as she considered her answer. "Please!"

"Fine," I growled, prying open her window."

"I'm in the kitchen!"

Stepping out of her bedroom, I found myself completely disoriented. Her apartment was only two-thirds the size of mine, so why couldn't I find the kitchen? "Marco!" I shouted.

"Polo!" she shouted back.

Following the sound of her voice, I muttered, "How does one get the apple milk to make the apple curd you need to churn to... Oh, my."

I had to conclude that the unlabeled jar in her left hand contained apple butter, because she was sucking on the finger of the other one, and she appeared to be enjoying it. When I opened my mouth, I'd planned on asking her about that, but what I actually said indicated what was really on the forefront of my mind: "You're not wearing your shirt."

She didn't say anything; she just grinned an enormous, smug grin. Below her waist were her unremarkable track pants--the ones I had once torn off so eagerly not long ago--but above the waist she wore only a periwinkle, pushup bra.

Periwinkle. Okay, I was willing to compromise.

I needed to say something right now. It needed to be witty, but not so funny that it would kill this hypnotic stare-down we had going on. I said, "Apple butter?"

She took a moment to finish licking her finger clean before she asked, "Want some?"

With the grace of a zombie, I reached for the jar.

She pulled away and scolded me, "Like this!" She dipped her finger into the jar and held it held it in front of my face.

Without breaking eye contact, I steadied her hand with mine and enjoyed my first taste of the touted apple butter.

"Although," she said, "there may be one way to make it even better." With that, she dunked my pinkie in the jar and licked it.

Using my free hand, I braced myself on the nearest door frame, seeing as my legs were now useless to me.

"Not bad," she purred. "So what to you think?"

I grabbed the back of her neck, pulled her closer, and kissed her ravenously. From that point forward, only one thought in my head had any sort of coherency, and it demanded that she leave that sexy-as-hell bra alone as long as possible. The rest of the clothing in the room, however, was fair game. Sure enough, my pant, shirt, and tie joined her track pants in a pile in the corner. Don't ask me how they got there. I don't even remember how my boots and socks got off of my feet, and those were usually the things that crippled momentum.

The rational part of my mind only surfaced for a moment when it heard her gasp, "Wait." She fumbled around the counter until she opened her silverware drawer and retrieved a condom. A few minutes of frenzied grappling, fumbling, and thrusting later, she caught her breath and asked, "Can we lie down on the floor now?"

I nodded and helped her off the counter.

After we rested and enjoyed some air, we both laughed. She helped herself out of that beautiful, beautiful bra. "What did you think of the apple butter?"

Tyffanie Grant was only sixteen, but she had spent the past five years selling out pop-music concerts and acting in her all-ages sitcom, Mac and Daddy. She'd always dressed and acted provocatively, yet maintained her virtue. Tonight, she was going to put money on it. Judging by the decorations and the size of this yacht on which I stood, I'd say it was a lot of money.

For a purity ball, I was expecting more white clothing. Even the boys, all athletic and bobbing their heads in unison to the music, wore mostly baby blue shirts tucked into their meticulously pressed khakis--too cool, of course, to dance.

The girls unanimously wore black cocktail dresses with skirts that reached down to their mid-thighs and kept hiking up as they wriggled, writhed, and sweat to the bubblegum blaring out of the unnecessarily large speakers in every corner. To Ms. Grant's credit, none of the tunes were her own.

After hours of this, I barely even noticed my colleague, Gretchen, finishing her photographing orbit of the room and gliding over. "Max, look at this."

"I am looking."

She smacked the back of my head. "Not there."

I turned my attention to the display on her camera. "What am I looking at?"

"Who's that?"

"Phil Ferris," I replied, "the washed-up comedian who plays the titular father in Mac and Daddy."

She smacked me again. "That's for saying tit in a yacht full of teenagers."

"It means title, you idiot."

She shrugged. "I know, I just like hitting you."

"That's nice," I told her. "Can I go back to being a creepy pedophile now?"

This time, when she swung at me, I caught her wrist.

"Do you think you could tell me what's going on without hitting me again?"

"I'm not talking about Phil Ferris," she said, liberating her arm, "I'm talking about the guy behind him."

I squinted. "Looks like a ferret in a sweater vest."

"Yeah, but who is he?"

I scanned the room and caught sight of him swaggering over in this direction, with his loosely knotted tie, well-worn cargo pants, and scruffy blonde hair. I'd never seen him before, but it was obvious to me exactly who I was dealing with: my newly acquired nemesis, who worked for my rival paper and had been snatching exclusive interviews right out from under me.

I said to him, "Allen Dean, I presume."

"Wayne," said someone nearby.

"Say what?" I turned to the voice to see a towering slab of Nordic beef. His blond hair, like Gretchen's, improbably swept over his head in the most stylish manner imaginable. His lips, like Gretchen's, puffed alluringly. His chest, like Gretchen's, threatened the integrity of his button-up shirt. And he brandished a camera, just like Gretchen.

The Aryan repeated, "I'm Wayne."

"I'm Gretchen," she purred, checking him out.

"Knock that off," I hissed at her.

"You must be the lauded Max Fuentes," the ferret said.

"You must be..."

"Not lauded much longer," he added.

"That's a declaration of war, Dean," I told him.

"A bit of a one-sided war, don't you think?"

"This sexual tension is killing me," I said. "Should we make out now, or should we trade a few more barbs?"

He shook his head. "You're funny. But redundant. I'm about to score an exclusive, and all you'll have left to write are captions."

"You're so cute," I told him before cupping my hands to mouth and turning toward the dance floor. "Tyffanie Grant! Come on over!"

A few moments passed, and she emerged from a cloud of giggling teenage girls without a word, just a curious smile.

"If I promised to dance with you and all your friends, you think I could get an exclusive?"

She looked me up and down, grabbed my hand, and said, "Deal."

As she pulled me away, I made sure to blow Allen Dean a kiss.

A half hour and a full notebook later, I rejoined Gretchen, who was standing alone and fanning her face with the hand not occupied with a camera.

"The hormones in there are suffocating," I told her. "If I don't fuck something tonight, I am going to die."

She let out something between a moan and a sigh. "Oh, yeah. It's a good thing I have a boyfriend to go home to." I couldn't tell if the sigh was one of relief or schadenfreude. It didn't matter, because I spent the rest of the evening inebriated to the point of nausea by youthful lust.

When I got home hours later, I tried a cold shower, but I couldn't wash the hormones off of me. It made it worse, actually, as I became aware of how nude I was, and how badly I wanted to share that nudity with someone who richly deserved it.

I tried masturbating, but I kept remembering how young the objects of my fantasies were. Whenever I tried to change the subject, I found myself recalling the skinny, immature limbs of my high-school sweetheart. Whichever way my mind's eye went, it landed on jailbait.

And so I tried climbing onto my fire escape and getting some fresh air laced with tetrahydrocannabinol, but this was the worst idea of them all, because of my neighbor.

I could have fled at that moment, because, facing away from me with her cell to her ear, she had no idea I was there. Yet I was paralyzed by her neck, exposed by a loose ponytail and glowing with sweat, by the damp polyester clinging to her back, and by her workout pants.

Damn. Athletic women: my only weakness.

My mind, already on fire, ceded control to my body, which maneuvered my feet right up to her. The fingers of my right hand slid over her hip so they could tug loose the knot that held her drawstring together. The rest of them stroked her stomach and crept under the hem of her shirt.

The door to the holding cell opened, and the officer on the other side told me, "You're free to go, Max."

With a yawn, I asked him. "Hey, Jason. What's going on?"

"You know, the usual."

"Really? Because the last time I was in, they told me you and the family went to Florida for the week."

Rolling his eyes, he said, "Not much of a vacation when you got to stay with your in-laws, if you know what I mean."

"Not personally, but I've heard things."

"Lucky." He shook his head. "You know the way out. Stay out of trouble."

We smirked at each other.

When I got to the check-out desk, I said to the uniform sitting behind it. "Hey, Roger."

"Hey, Max," he replied. "Says here you were trespassing backstage at the Staplebitch concert."

I shrugged.

"My daughter loves that band."

"Your daughter has lousy taste in music."

"That's what I keep telling her," he said, "but you know kids."

"Not personally, but I've heard things."

He handed me my belongings, I signed for them, and he told me, "See you next time, buddy."

Upon exiting the building, I was greeted by my colleague and photographer, Gretchen, leaning on a lamppost, playing with her fingernails. Her voluptuous hair was tied up into a stringy ponytail, her pin-up-girl figure was hidden under too-large jeans and a T-shirt, her bright eyes were bloodshot and framed by the ugliest pair of glasses I'd ever seen, her lips were pale, and her smile was absent. I'd recognized her only by the sound of her gum-chewing.

"Gretchen," I told her, "you look like shit."

"You look like the shit that shit shits," she replied.

I took a moment to comprehend what she had just said. Failing that, I closed my eyes and exhaled.

"We done?" she asked.

I nodded.

She strode off, and I turned on my phone to see what the world had been up to in my absence. "You have one new message," the ethereal voice inside informed me.

"And I bet you a dollar I'm going to hate it," I mumbled in reply.

"Max," the message growled, "this is Myron. You know, your editor? The one who keeps having to bail you out of jail? That Myron? I expect to see you in my office within a half-hour of you getting you out, and I expect you to have an interview for me with the notoriously difficult-to-interview it-band of the moment with the stupid name. If not, I will murder you, chop up your body, and throw it in a compost heap."

Seeing as I'd failed to get said interview, I figured I should try to make a run for it.

"If you failed to get said interview, and you try to make a run for it," the message continued, "I will hunt you down then murder you, chop up your body, and throw it in a compost heap."

Scratch that.

My phone went off while I was a dead man walking to the train, and I went ahead and answered it, given that I was too numb to give a fuck anymore.

"Am I talking to Max Fuentes?" it asked.

"Who wants to know?" I replied.

"I need you to confirm or deny the veracity of a recent news-related rumor."

"And what rumor would that be?"

"That an exclusive, all-access, behind-the-scenes story about Staplebitch is not running in your paper this weekend."

I'd never heard the voice before, but the cockiness of my arch-nemesis could not be mistaken. For starters, it rivaled mine. "Allen Dean," I moaned.

It didn't even occur to me to ask how he got my number, because I was too busy informing him, "Dean, I am going to fucking kill you."

He laughed and hung up.

I sighed, "Myron is going to fucking kill me."

Forty-five minutes later, however, my editor sentenced me to a fate worse than death. I blinked. "You want me to do what?"

"Not you," said my editor as he pointed a finger at my colleague and photographer, Gretchen, who had somehow gone home, showered, washed and blew out her hair, dressed, and applied most of her makeup, since I last saw her not all that long ago; "both of you."

"I'm clear on who's involved, Chief, but it's what you want us to do that I don't quite understand."

"Request denied," Sean told me as he slid off the stool at the International Bar.

I appealed his ruling. "Why?"

"Because, as is the case every morning," he explained, "I must report to my place of employment."

"So?"

"The hour at which I must do this is rapidly approaching."

"Again, so?"

He sighed. "Excluding you, and perhaps some chemically enhanced rock musicians, the mammalian biology requires a number of hours to rest and reset its physiology. A more economical way of describing this function is..." He pantomimed quotation marks, probably because he knew how much I hated that. "... 'sleep.'"

I wasn't sure how this applied to him. Given the way he interacted with people in general, as well as the fact that his fashion was as robotic as his vocabulary, I'd always suspected he was not a mammal at all, but rather a really badly disguised alien that didn't actually need to sleep. Regardless, I chose to play along with his subterfuge; I was desperate. "Call in sick to work," I said. "Spend a few extra hours in bed."

"The flaw in your logic is that I would find myself wracked with boredom upon awakening."

"Watch some TV."

"I derive the same amount of pleasure from television as you."

I derived the same amount of pleasure from television as someone getting beaten in the face with a sanitation worker's shovel, so that was out. "Don't you have any hobbies you've been meaning to get to?"

"Excelling at my family's business is the closest approximation I have to a hobby," he replied, "inasmuch as it is the only pastime for which I've shown any talent."

"I don't know what to say to that."

"Then say nothing." He gave me a moment before sitting back down and asking, "What is it you seek to avoid at home by further socializing?"

I sighed and signaled Dan the Bartender. "I think I need another beer."

There was one in front of me almost instantly. "You really look like you do," Dan replied.

I poured it down my throat and said, "I think I need another beer."

Dan handed me another bottle.

I turned back to Sean. "Where was I?"

"Your fear."

"Right." I sighed, "Every time I go home, I run into my neighbor, and she calls me Dude. And that word cuts into me like a..." Okay, so where the hell did my wit go just now? "Like a sharp thing that hurts a lot."

"What qualifies this as more dire than other verbal indignities you tend to endure on a regular basis?"

"Because," I tried to reply. "Because... To be honest..." I said before turning back to Dan the Bartender. "I think I need another beer." Upon my order being delivered, I spat out, "Because it makes me feel awkward."

"You have performed unspeakable acts upon her body with great vigor..."

"Vigor's a good word for it," I sighed.

Undeterred, Sean continued, "and you fled from her without so much as a simple telephone call, and now you're hiding in the closet--figuratively, of course--only to discover that your most recent sexual conquest..."

"Not my most recent," I mumbled.

"I'd forgotten you were a slut."

"I'm not sorry."

"Be that as it may," he continued, "one of your more recent sexual conquests sleeps in a bed not more than four feet away from yours, and you have yet to learn her surname."

Dan the bartender shook his head and chuckled, "Silly gorilla-suit guy."

Inspiration struck me. "This is a message from the heavens!"

"The gorilla?"

"No," I replied, "Sex. I quit having it."

"I doubt your conviction."

"I believe me, and that's all that matters."

"This is the most ill-conceived idea I've been party to in quite some time," he told me.

"It makes perfect sense," I said. "I am tired of being led around by my penis. When I think about it, I've made so many bad decisions in pursuit of sex, and what do I get out of it?"

"Orgasms," he replied.

"Well, it's not worth it," I declared.

"There is little doubt in my mind that you'll find yourself fornicating at some point in the near future. As a matter of fact," he told me, "I'm willing to entertain a wager in regard to your poorly thought-out declaration."

"Really."

"I'm prepared to stake one dollar on this."

"That's not exactly a fair bet," I said. "You'll only have pay up if I die before you."

He sighed. "Very well. If, by this time next year, you haven't engaged in sexual congress of any sort, I will pay out the dollar you will have earned."

"That's not a lot of money."

"My father would say, 'It's the principle of the thing.'"

I shook his hand. "Better make sure you have enough money in that bank account in a year." I added, "And can we keep congress out of this? They just fuck everything up."

He ignored me. "Double if your partner in said acts is your neighbor."

The coolest thing about police interrogation rooms anywhere in the country is that they all look exactly like they do in the movies or on TV. There's variety, of course--some have shackles, while others don't, and their sizes differ, but that's really it; they're all decorated with a metal table and plastic aluminum chairs, and they're all lit by unflattering fluorescents. Through the two-way mirror--also a prerequisite--I watched a uniformed policeman enter, legal pad in hand. Tradition dictates that he should have had a file folder as well, but this was the twenty-first century, and paper costs money and trees.

"So your friend in the other room told us the whole story," he said.

"Are we really going to do this?" I asked him.

"Do what?"

"Well, there's no Good Cop with you, and you don't strike me as a Bad Cop, so I guess that makes you Mildly Irritated Cop."

"Shouldn't you be taking this a little more seriously?" he asked.

"Look, Officer..." I squinted at his name-tag. "... Reynolds. Do you know how many times I've done this?"

"A hundred and two."

"Seriously?"

His expression told me nothing.

"That's really cool." I reached into the pocket of my trademark brown leather pea coat and pulled out my notebook and pen, which, for some reason, they hadn't confiscated. "Can I write that down?"

"Be my guest." He clicked his own pen so he could record the upcoming conversation. "Do you know why you're here?"

"Because some guy in a trucker hat got punched in the face."

"And the girl..."

"Don't call her a girl to her face," I interrupted. "She hates that."

"... woman with you, a Lisa Green, states that you were punched in the stomach."

"True."

"Did you happen to see who did it?"

"I did not," I replied. "I'm assuming it was the same guy." It wasn't.

"That seems unlikely."

"The bar was kind of crowded, and my attention was already occupied."

"By what?"

I smirked. "By the ladies. The attention-getting ladies, if you catch my drift."

If he had, he didn't let on. Definitely Irritated Cop. "Why did you volunteer to come in to sign an affidavit then?"

"I didn't," I replied. "My friend did."

"She gave us a description of a white male, age eighteen to thirty-five, dressed in blue jeans and a denim jacket."

"That could be anybody."

He rolled his eyes. "The victim said he didn't know who assaulted him either, so he's not pressing charges." That was probably because he didn't want to admit that a diminutive woman knocked him out with one punch. "That said, between you and me, were you the one who did it?"

I snorted. "If I had, my knuckles would be broken, and he wouldn't have suffered a concussion. I'm a wimp, Officer."

"I see." He jotted that down. "So you think it was your companion?"

"She hits like a girl." Well, a cave girl. Especially when somebody knocks the wind out of me.

"I thought you said she didn't like to be called a girl."

"There's no reason that statement has to leave the room, is there?"

He shook his head.

"Then she hits like a girl."

"Is that a no?"

"That is a 'I can't tell you for certain.'"

He stood and said, "Mr. Fuentes, we don't want to take up anymore of your time." What he meant was that he didn't want me to take up anymore of his time, but calling him on that was a good way to get pepper-spray in my face. "You can go ahead and check out and go your own way."

"Not as far as I know." Heading for the door, he recommended, "Stay out of trouble, Mr. Fuentes."

That wasn't likely. "Have a nice evening, Officer!"

He grunted.

After I'd been processed, I exited the building, only to be greeted by Lisa, who was leaning against a lamppost, lighting a joint.

"You've got balls of solid steel," I told her, "going into a police station with an eighth of weed in your sock."

"Being here with you after all these years," she replied, "inspired me to act out."

I chuckled. "Why don't we head back to the Village and find ourselves bar without fisticuffs on tap."

She held out her arm, and I wrapped mine around it. "Let's."

A quick train ride later, we wandered the narrow, vibrant streets of my favorite neighborhood in which to drink a lot. While contemplating a well-worn pub, a douchebag in a gray, three-piece suit, a black shirt, a white tie, and a camel-hair overcoat rounded the corner, thus lowering the tone. Something about the way he studied us with his expensive, horn-rimmed glasses and looked away as if we weren't there made me want to break my knuckles on his nose. It didn't help that he was informing his cell phone, "Our business partnership goes into full effect at the start of the next quarter. I suggest that, between then and now, you grant Mr. Franklin sole contact with my company, inasmuch as you can't be trusted to ..."

All of the color drained from Lisa's face. "Wait a fucking minute! I know that asshole's voice!" She then squeaked, "Sean?"

The douchebag turned back around, this time with his eyes wider than I'd ever seen anybody's get. "Fuck me in the ear!" he replied before dropping his phone and running like hell.

"What the fuck was that?" I asked, intending the question for anyone who might be listening.

"Take me home," Lisa replied.

"What... ?" I repeated.

"Take me home now."

Since she was my best friend in the history of the entire world, I obeyed, but not before picking up the discarded cell and pocketing it. I loved myself a good mystery.

It turns out this is not the case at all. She came four times before I came once. Between that and the weed, she fell immediately to sleep.

Being objectified sexually was something most men didn't really mind, and, Lord knows, I've had a lot of sex with a lot of women who really didn't know much about me. In this real-life porno, however, something seemed off. I existed only to scratch Emma's itch.

I remained in her bed for quite a while, wondering what the hell had just happened, until I finally decided that any thinking could be done better in my own bedroom. All I had to do was find my clothes.

My khakis and underwear were easy; they were dangling, inside-out, from my left ankle. The reason they were hanging there was the same reason I only needed to locate my right boot and sock. My tie, still knotted around my neck, was clenched in her fist. I tugged gently, but it didn't give. I tugged harder, but it still wouldn't give. I yanked, and that caused her to roll over in the other direction, taking my neck with it. Slipping it over my head, I twisted and arched and squirmed my way to freedom.

The condom plopped into her wastebasket before I untangled pulled my pants and pulled them up. I located my missing boot on top of her bureau, my shirt in her half-open closet, and my sock in the tiny hallway outside of her room.

After dressing, I wondered if I should take my boots off to tiptoe over her hardwood floors to her window, but a long, deep snore from the bed informed me that I'd be okay. All the same, I'd prefer a few moments to myself to get my thoughts together, so I crept as softly as I could for the exit.

And then, just before I made it to safety, she began muttering. I froze. My ears strained, until they heard, "Just bark if you need me."

I retrieved my belt from the fire escape and returned home.

Work the next day was tedious, which was just fine with me. Had anything exciting happened, like, say, former child star Julian Glass getting arrested for DUI as he had twice already this month, and had I been stuck standing outside the courthouse with all of the other alleged journalists, our tape recorders and notebooks in hand, I likely would have snapped.

Every inch of the news floor sensed my frustration and confusion, and all stayed away, except for Bill, who didn't know the meaning of the word couth. He said, "You look like someone beat the hell out of you last night. And you look like you kind of enjoyed it."

I enjoyed it a lot, actually.

That evening, I knocked on her door the instant I'd made it to our floor. When she didn't answer, I tried again fifteen minutes later, and again after another twenty minutes. After the fourth attempt, I gave up and headed to my room.

During the immeasurable amount of time lying on my mattress, staring at the ceiling, I'd completely forgotten that my favorite way to alleviate boredom and stress was smoking weed. When that factoid came back to me, I headed immediately to the fire escape, reaching for my pipe and matches; I mean, if there ever was a time for getting thoroughly baked, this was it.

On second thought, if there was ever a time for not getting thoroughly baked, this was it.

I had nearly made it outside when a barely audible shuffle rattled from the wall. My legs propelled me to her door, upon which my knuckles rapped.

She answered immediately, my tie in her hand-- exactly where I'd left it. "Here for this?"

"Yeah."

We both alternated between looking at each other, looking at the floor, and looking at the ceiling. Finally, I coughed out, "We should talk."

She sighed and beckoned me inside.

We shared a long, anxious moment until she spoke up. "I don't know where to start."

Does the cliché "diamond in the rough" have an opposite? If it does, it would describe the living room in which I sat. Outside, meticulously maintained brownstones walled off the neighborhood from the rest of Brooklyn. Birds sang, squirrels scurried, and young, white people walked large dogs and larger strollers up and down bright sidewalks.

Yet this apartment rotted like a cavity within an otherwise healthy set of teeth.

But hey: rent-control.

"Why are you looking at this place?" asked Pat, whose name was on the lease. "You could probably afford something in Manhattan."

That was a good question, but it wasn't addressed at me. Pat had double-booked this morning's interview for the roommate share, which would have been awkward had my current hangover not made me too sluggish to give a damn. I should have given several, considering the competition.

The soft-spoken vice president of a prestigious insurance firm sitting next to me replied with a cocky grin, "You know why divorce costs so much?"

"Nope," Pat replied.

"Because it's worth it."

"No frickin' kidding," Pat chuckled. "Want to see the room?"

Mr. Right nodded. I stood up in agreement, mostly because I was on the verge of dozing off.

Pat led the way down a short hallway, opened a door, and gestured. The first thing I noticed when I peeked inside was the soon-to-be-former tenant piled up in the fetal position inside of a sleeping bag. He groaned and waved his hand just a little.

"Hi," I said, "I'm Max."

He grunted.

"Raymond," said my rival.

The tenant grunted.

"That's Sergio," Pat told me. "He's moving out later."

"Pleasure to meet you, Sergio," I said.

Sergio grunted.

As we headed back to the living room, Pat asked, "And what do you do for a living, Max?"

"I don't know yet."

"I see," said Pat.

I may have been only twenty-three and fresh out of school, but I'd heard that phrase spoken with that tone enough times to know exactly he meant. I couldn't afford to scratch this apartment off my list, because it was the last item on it. The good news is, I had no objection to cheating. The better news sat on the bookshelf beside me.

"The Rise of the Son" was a fictional account of the End Times, written by a convicted tax-evader, noted serial adulterer, and beloved pastor named Jimmy Prewitt. A few years ago, while deep in an ironic phase, I'd picked up a copy, because I thought it would be hilarious. It turned out to be spiteful and self-righteous. Right now, it was my salvation. Pointing, I squealed, "I love that book!"

"That the Surgeon General turned out to be the real False Prophet. I didn't see that coming." I jerked my head toward Raymond with a convincing gasp. "Oh no! I probably spoiled it for you!"

"I wasn't planning on reading it anyway."

"I see," said Pat.

I tried not to smirk.

A few minutes later, Pat escorted us to the door, but signaled for me to hang back. Just as Raymond stepped outside, though, a pair of EMTs shoved their way in. They charged past us a few moments later carrying Sergio, still curled up in the fetal position in his sleeping bag.

I don’t know why I even bother. I mean, I should have known when I took a goddamn train to goddamn Boston and tracked down the ex-girlfriend of Lane goddamn Sheridan to uncover that massive bombshell from his past, that goddamn Allen goddamn Dean would have beaten me to it. Yeah, so he’s only done it once before, but, given that he was my brand new nemesis, it was inevitable, wasn't it? I was getting old--almost twenty-eight. Over the goddamn hill.

And I don't even know why I bothered to schlep this goddamn lawn chair all the over from the goddamn Cloisters and up four goddamn floors and to my goddamn fire escape because I knew full well that the moment I turned my goddamn back, my goddamn neighbor was just going to sit on it. And I would try to goddamn converse with her, even though she was just going to call me Dude, like she had ever since I've goddamn known her. And it was only a matter of goddamn time before she blew my goddamn cover with my goddamn roommates and outed me as a goddamned heterosexual.

I sat in my prize, determined not to let her win. I had no idea where she was, but I knew she was watching me, and that this chair was comfy. Unfortunately, a sizzling jones then set in, and I needed to get high right goddamn now.

I stood and mourned the upcoming loss of my seat. Oh well, I sighed, my funeral. It took only a moment to gather up my pot-smoking and return to the outside, but that was all she needed. The inevitability of it all did nothing to lessen the sting.

"Dude," she said.

I gritted my teeth, and choked out a polite offer, "Weed?"

She shook her head.

I was used to that too. Still, just before I put my pipe to my lips, I told her, "Your funeral."

She sat up in the chair. "That doesn't even make sense. How is it my funeral if I'm not doing something that could make me cough and die?"

I took my hit and held it, wondering how exactly it was that I'd set her off--so I'd know how to do it again.

"Why would you even say that?" she persisted.

I exhaled. "It was just something to say," I replied. "I didn't even think about it."

She closed her eyes and sighed. "That was really weird of me," she said. "Sorry."

I handed her the pipe and a book of matches, asking, "Are you sure you can handle this? You had a lot of fear before."

She snatched the paraphernalia away. "Dude, don't." A flick of a match later, her beautiful chest rose as smoke filled her lungs. Her equally beautiful face grimaced as she tried to keep it to herself.

A smirk crept across my cheek.

She exhaled in a fit of coughs, and when she recovered, she snickered, "What are you laughing at?"

I shrugged.

"It's not funny."

"It's a little bit funny." I reached for my stuff, but she yanked it away from me.

"Mine!"

"Mine!" I replied.

"Yours when I'm done."

She took another hit, and another. I found that my irritation at watching my marijuana disappear, bud by bud, into this woman's mouth was tempered by the fact that it was one hell of a mouth. Finally she returned the half-exhausted pipe and a third of the book of matches she'd started with.

"Are you sure you're finished?"

She giggled.

"I'll take that as a yes."

"Oh, my god," she moaned, "I needed that."

"Cannabis has that effect on people."

She sighed as I helped myself to the remains of my bowl, and I asked her when I exhaled, "You want to tell me about the fucking day you had?"

Her eyes shot open. "Oh, no."

"You want me to tell you about the fucking day I had?"

She sat up in the chair, gripping the armrests like she was on a plane hitting severe turbulence. "You want to go inside."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"I just shared an assload of weed with you."

"Dude," she insisted.

"Okay, what the hell is going on?"

She giggled.

I laughed with her, but I had no idea why. "Better now?"

Still giggling, she got to her feet and shook her head.

"You are one strange cat," I told her.

She started to glide toward me.

I backed away, until the only thing standing between me and a four-story fall was a flimsy, cast-iron railing. "Now just wait a minute."

She giggled again; her face was less than an inch from mine. I tried to turn away, but she followed my gaze in every direction. "I warned you," she said.

My blood pressure rose. "Are you going to tell me what this is about?"

"I just remembered why I don't get high," she whispered into my ear before nibbling on it.

While enjoying a cup of black coffee in a semi-classy diner in the Upper West Side of Manhattan, I flipped through one of my trademark reporter's notebooks and ran across a ten-digit number. With a shrug, I muttered, "Now's as good a time as any."

"Um," said the voice coming from my cell, "hello?"

"Hi," I told it, "this is Max."

"Max?"

"You gave me your phone number last night?" I reminded the voice. "Need me to narrow it down?"

"I don't give out my phone number a lot, Max," said the woman on the other end with a happy sigh.

"I'm flattered."

"And I never give it out to guys at that bar."

"Why not?"

"Well," she explained, "it's kind of an old man pub, not a meat market."

"I'm not really a big fan of meat markets." Especially when the meat markets are too crowded that particular evening. "However, I've always been a huge fan of that pub, though." This would be a lot more convincing if I could remember that pub's name.

"Then how come I've never seen you there before?" she asked.

"You must have just missed me."

"You're hard to miss," she said.

It was time to get off the subject of geography before my bluff ran dry. "You're referring to my distinctive broken nose."

"It does stand out," she agreed sheepishly.

"It also makes it tough to commit petty crimes."

She chuckled. "So why are you calling, Max?"

"I was hoping you were free tonight."

After a moment, she replied, "As a matter of fact, I am."

"What do you think about me swinging by your place later?"

"You don't even know where I live!"

"I was hoping you'd tell me."

She paused again. "Monroe Street. Hoboken."

"That's good to know," I told her. "There are some pretty good takeout places in Hoboken. Got any preferences?"

"Surprise me."

"Sevenish?" I concluded. "I think that gives us plenty of time to get to know each other, and if we want to go out later, we can. If we don't, we don't."

"Eightish?" she replied. "I need to straighten out my apartment."

"Deal."

After I hit the End button, I turned to Gretchen West, the currently scowling photographer from my newspaper with who happened to be sharing my booth. "What?" I asked.

"Don't you ever stop?" she replied.

"Why would I?"

Gretchen shook her head. "What makes you think this woman you just met is just going to sleep with you?"

A small part of me winced, but that was mostly because I didn't usually endure such condemnation in the bright, green eyes of someone with that smile and décolletage. Her opinion of every other person she'd ever met sparkled invitingly, and so her negativity stung a little. But only a little. Otherwise, I welcomed her contempt, as it was matched by mine. Besides, her assessment reminded me of something important: "Are there any good takeout places in Hoboken?"

Aghast, she asked, "Why would I even consider helping you take advantage of some poor girl?"

"Why wouldn't you?"

"You are so gross!"

"You said that already," I reminded her.

"That's because I mean it."

On the inside, I smirked. For someone so vain and vacuous, she was getting pretty good at keeping up with my banter. On the outside, however, I completely ignored her. "For obvious reasons, I should probably avoid Italian. There's nothing sexy about slurping."

"You're making me uncomfortable," she told me.

"I should probably avoid Indian food too, because I don't know how her digestive tract might react." I frowned. "Have you ever seen those movies where the characters feed each other erotically? Maybe they could give me some ideas."

"Focus," she demanded.

"I suppose I could pick up some strawberries from a bodega on the way over, but that's not much of a meal, you know?"

She pouted, which was a lot cuter than it was intimidating.

I snapped my fingers. "Something with chopsticks! I can feed it to her sensually! Maybe sushi..."

"Max Fuentes!" Gretchen snapped.

"What?"

Aubry Hitchens, reality TV's It Girl de jour, cleared her throat from the other side of the table. "Are we going to get on with this interview?"

"Right," I admitted. "Totally forgot."

She sneered. "I have a talk show and a magazine shoot later, you know."

I could tell you every single detail about the history of this cable channel. I knew the date and time of its first broadcast, and of the content it inflicted upon the world. That date was a long time ago, which, in television years, was a very, very long, long time ago, and the content was educational in nature, twenty-four hours a day. About halfway between that date and now, the executives in charge noted that learning didn't turn much of a profit. And so they set their meager budget to the task of scouring the continent for a half-dozen egos and ids the size of ten ids, transplanted them to a mansion in Long Island, surrounded them with cameras, microphones, liquor, and hot tubs, and set them loose on each other. And, despite the fact that an incalculable number of formerly educational cable channels had walked this path long before this formerly educational cable channel, the result was still gold.

Along with this disappointing story, I also could tell you the names, ages, and hometowns of every single one of these egos and ids. If said ego and id was female, I could tell you her measurements, and whether or not they were fake. And finally, I could tell you the highlights of their hookups, breakups, and fisticuffs.

Yet my soul has remained intact for one reason alone: I have never watched a single minute of this program. Knowing these things was my job, and I was damned good at it.

The champion ego and id of this particular house was Aubrey Hitchens—32DD, with a twenty-six-inch waist and what has been described by many as a "smokin' booty." Currently, this particular booty was strolling down 116th and Amsterdam, across the street from where I stood, my photographer by my side.

"I can handle this," she said.

"What's your plan," I asked, rolling my eyes. "Go up to her, compliment her shoes, trade ab-crunching techniques, and ask if you can take a picture and let me follow up with a few questions?"

"Well, her shoes are really tacky, but I like her purse," she replied without the slightest trace of irony in her voice--or even her soul, really. It's one of the reasons she got under my skin. The other reasons strained the top buttons of her blouse.

"That's not going to work."

"Have you ever tried it?"

"I don't like her purse," I replied.

"Fine, Mr. Bossy Pants," she said. "What's your plan?"

Bossy Pants. That was new. At least she called me Mister. "Just follow my lead," I told her.

"Why would I want to do that?"

I smirked. "You've been my sidekick--"

"Partner."

"--for how long?"

"Four months," she replied.

"And what's my ratio of pulling to not pulling things like this off?"

"After you, Mr. Bossy Pants," she admitted.

I jogged down the street as fast as my charcoal-lined lungs would take me. "Miss Hitchens!" I wheezed. "Can I get you to answer a few questions?"

"You have to talk to my publicist," Aubrey Hitchens snapped without slowing down or looking in my direction.

"Did that," I replied. "She told me there was a fee."

"Then pay the fee."

"Can't afford it."

"Then you don't get an interview," she concluded.

"Can I quote you on that?"

She stopped walking. "Do what?"

"I mean," I told her, "my editor demands a story about you for the weekend edition. He gets what he demands."

"He scares me," Gretchen agreed. "Like when he ordered me to get a candid of you in case we need to fill a hole in tomorrow's paper." Without warning, she squeezed off two shots from her hip. They were probably going to be amazing shots I had to admit. For someone like her, she really was an excellent photographer.

I continued, "I had hoped to talk to you, but I'll just have to write a column speculating as to why a self-proclaimed farm girl from Omaha, Nebraska, would be so vain as to charge that much money for her attention." I removed a notebook from my pocket for effect, not because I had anything to write down. Also for effect, I frowned and turned to Gretchen. "Are there even farms in Omaha?"

"How am I supposed to know that?" she replied.

"Because you're from Nebraska."

Her eyes widened in confused shock. "No, I'm not."

"Yeah, you are."

"No," she reiterated, "I'm not."

"There's no point in denying it," I told her. "We already know the truth."

"I'm not from Nebraska!"

"You shouldn't be so embarrassed," I said. "Nebraska's a fine state."

"I'm from Baltimore!"

"You went to college in Baltimore," I clarified. "You went to high school in Nebraska."

"I went to high school in Connecticut."

"And before that you lived in Nebraska."

"No, I didn't!"

This didn't make any sense. Based on my rudimentary understanding of evolution, the kind of boisterousness, naivety, and delicious curves of someone like Gretchen West could only have developed from the hardworking, honest, God-fearing, German-Nordic genetic stock of the American Heartland. "At least tell me your parents are from Nebraska."

"What the hell is going on?" yelled Aubrey Hitchens.

"Isn't it obvious?" Gretchen replied. "We're blackmailing you."

"And if she can get that," I added, "then it should be obvious."

"You do this," Aubrey Hitchens warned, "you're burning every single bridge between me and your paper."

Something I couldn't quite put my finger on told me that the editor of the newspaper I wanted to employ me wasn't yet convinced I was the person he was looking for.

So that editor put his finger on it. "I'm still not convinced you're the person I'm looking for."

"Tell me, Myron," I started.

"You just met me," he replied. "You're not allowed to call me by my first name."

"Can I call you chief?"

"No."

"Name one celebrity who won't talk to your paper," I told him, "and I can have an exclusive piece in your inbox by deadline tomorrow evening."

"Okay, Mister..." He peered skeptically at my resume. "... Max Fuentes. If you can blow my mind with a story about Gerald Davies, you're hired."

"You won't regret it, chief."

I know that I regretted it, because there was no way a twenty-four-year-old, wannabe journalist could get access to a mega-super-blockbuster-action star like Gerald Davies. Still, my favorite things to do were things I couldn't do, so I spent the night and the rest of the next day looking for inspiration in a bottle of cheap scotch and a plastic bag full of weed.

It wasn't there.

Oh well, there was always blackmail. I opened my laptop, consulted a few search engines, and picked up my cell.

"This is Cheryl," said the voice on the other end of the phone.

"Hi, Cheryl," I replied with an exaggerated twang, "this is Maxwell Fox from the Internal Revenue Service; I was hoping to ask you a favor." Yes, I was aware that impersonating a federal agent is a serious crime.

"You want a favor from me?" Cheryl asked with hesitation.

"Yep!" I whispered conspiratorially, "I wouldn't ask, but I am in such deep doo-doo." I laughed, "Sorry about that. I've got two little boys, and I think I've forgotten how to swear."

"Tell me about it. My girls have kids of their own, and I still say fudge when I'm really mad. How old are they?"

"Two and four." I plucked from my memory the names of my nephew and his best friend: "Luke and Cody."

Cheryl cooed.

"Can you tell me something?" I asked. "When do they stop putting everything in their mouths? There's always slobber on everything!"

She laughed. "Slobber's the least of your problems. Wait until they start driving."

"They grow up too fast."

"Yes, they do." She sighed. "What can I do for you today, Mr. Fox?"

"Please," I insisted, "call me Maxwell."

"Sure, Maxwell."

"As I said earlier, I'm in a bit of a pickle. It says here your firm handles the account of a Mr. Gerald Davies? The big movie star?"

"That's right."

"Well," I told her, "we're looking over some returns--routine government brick-a-brack; you know government."

"Tell me about it …"

"Well, I was supposed to draw up a little report, and I had all of my information on my little laptop, and it busted. You know computers."

"Tell me about it."

"Well, they told me over and over. They said, 'Maxwell, you better back that file up!' And I said I would, but I plum forgot! And if I go to my meeting this afternoon and I don't have that data, well, I don't have to tell you how much trouble I'd be in."

"What can I do to help?" she asked, genuine concern in her voice.

"The information I need is in Mr. Davies's expense accounts for the last fiscal year."

"Oh, I don't know."

"Cheryl," I pleaded, "they're going to boil my potatoes. I wouldn't ask if I wasn't in such a jam!"

She sighed, "Only if you don't tell anyone about this."

"Oh, God bless you!" I gave her a private e-mail account I'd set up for such an occasion, and she promised she'd send the information right away.

"Anytime, sweetheart!" Just before she hung up, she added, "You just be sure to give little Cody and little Luke a hug for me!"

"Sure thing!" I settled back in my desk, gulping down a mouthful of cold coffee to wash out the taste of Midwestern colloquialisms. A few minutes later, Cheryl came through, and I had in my hands every cent that passed through Gerald Davies's hands last year.

More importantly, I had in my hands my new job.

I made a couple of similarly dishonest phone calls and found the number of his publicist.

"Mark Ryan," the publicist answered.

"My name is Max Fuentes," I told him. "I'm an unemployed journalist, and I'm trying to exploit your client, Gerald Davies, to get a job. If you don't mind, I'd like to ask him a few questions."

I could almost hear him blink in surprise from the other end of the line. "What?"

"Hold on," I said, "I'm nervous. That came out totally wrong. What I meant to say, Mark, was, what can you tell me about the Loving Spoonful, located on 103rd Street and Amsterdam?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied after a long pause that indicating that he knew exactly what I was talking about.

"Not ringing any bells?" I insisted. "How about the one on Franklin? Or the one on Avenue C? How about Forty-ninth and Ninth?"

"What do you want?"

"What I want is to understand why a multi-millionaire would spend 35 percent of his net income to open up a chain of soup kitchens and then cover his tracks so thoroughly."

He sighed. "His pastor told him that charity doesn't count if he brags about it. It's that simple."

"Never mind," I told him. "The copyeditors write the headlines anyway. They're really good at that alliteration bullshit."

"Your point, Mr. Fuentes?"

"Let me break this down for you, Mark," I said. "I am going to write an expose of your boss's extracurricular activities, and there's nothing you can do to stop me. In fact, you guys come across better if you give my staff a 'no comment.' Hell, I'll save you the trouble and take that down right now."

"Then why the song and dance?"

"Simple," I replied. "In exchange for all this free character-building publicity I'm about to rain down on Mr. Davies, all I ask is that you reconsider your relationship with me and the paper that's about to hire me."

After a moment of silence, he grunted, "Fine."

I grinned. "Pleasure working with you, Mark."

Forty-five minutes later, my phone went off. Before I could even speak into it, Myron Fogle's voice barked at me. "This e-mail you sent me; is this for real?"

"Have I ever lied to you?"

"I just met you."

"Give it time, then."

"I want to see you in my office tomorrow," he said. "Bring a passport or two forms of ID."

"Thanks, chief!"

Just before I hung up, he added, "And don't call me chief ever again," he said.